In her anxiety to solve the mystery which surrounded this man, so like her father, Brenda would, but for the publicity of the position, have rushed forward and questioned him. Moreover, he began at once to speak loudly in abuse of the Government and in defence of the Boer Republic.
"It is the capitalists who want this war," he cried excitedly; "Rhodes and Beit and all that gang of scoundrels. Chamberlain is merely playing into their hands. Their villainous scheme is to take the gold mines from these unoffending people, and they are prepared to massacre them in their greed for gold. Kruger is----"
"Shut your mouth!" shouted a big, scowling man, thrusting himself forward. "We'll make you if you don't."
"I'm not afraid--I'm ready to stand by the truth," screeched the man with the crape scarf. "I mourn for England--the victim of a corrupt set of time-serving scoundrels. I wear black for her. Woe to her, I say, and her greed for gold--woe to her vile Government----"
With a fierce growl the mob flung forward. Brenda cried out. It was as though her father himself were being attacked. With a bound she placed herself before the old man.
"Leave him! Don't touch him!" she cried. "He's mad!"
"I'm not mad," cried the man. "I protest against tyranny and the cursed greed that would destroy a nation. You crouch at the feet of those who will drain your blood--cowardly hounds all of you!"
"'Ere! Let me get at 'im. Stand away, laidy!"
"No, no, he is old and weak. Oh, Mr. van Zwieten, save him."
Seeing an opportunity of posing as a hero at a small cost, the Dutchman placed the old man behind him, and stood between him and the mob which was closing in. "Leave him to me--I'll see to him!"
"He's a furriner!" yelped a small man. "Hit his head!"
"I'm a naturalized Englishman," shouted Van Zwieten, "but I won't let you touch this man!"
"Woe--woe to the wicked Government who are about to dye their garments in the blood of a just people!" shrieked the old man, waving his arms wildly.
Then Wilfred took hold of him and hurried him away. "Hold your tongue," he said roughly. "You'll get into trouble."
"I will seal my protest with my blood!"
"Stand back!" shouted Van Zwieten, opposing those who would have followed. "Hi, constable!"
"Why, it's Van the cricketer," cried the big man, joyfully. "He's all right, boys. Seen 'im carry 'is bat out many a time, I 'ave."
"Hooray for Van!" roared the fickle crowd, and as half-a-dozen policemen were pushing their way toward the centre of disturbance, it veered round to cheering Van Zwieten.
"Spy! Spy! He's a spy!" shouted a voice that sounded to Brenda uncommonly like Wilfred's.
The crowd growled again, and darted forward. But the police were now pushing right and left. Van Zwieten, who had changed color at the cry, stepped back and was swallowed up by the concourse of people. Wilfred had let the old man go, and the zealot was again raging, waving his crape scarf like a banner.
Brenda, terrified at finding herself alone in the midst of the mob, kept close to the big Dutchman.
Suddenly Wilfred, appearing, as it were, from nowhere, caught her arm.
"Come away! come away! There may be trouble," he cried, drawing her aside on to the steps by St. Martin's Church. Afar off she could see Van Zwieten leading the old man down a side street, and the little band of constables fighting with the mob, who were now inclined to resent any interference. Brenda was in despair.
"I want to ask that old man who he is," she cried. But Wilfred held her back in spite of her efforts to follow the Dutchman.
"Brenda! don't be foolish. It's dangerous. The people are getting their blood up."
"But that old man killed Mr. Malet. I will know who he is."
"Van Zwieten will find out."
"I dare say," said Brenda, tartly. "But he won't tell you or me."
"It's too late now to think of that. Come up here, and let us get a hansom. If you got into trouble, Brenda, Harold would never forgive me!"
And Brenda knew that this was so, and she guessed too that Wilfred was chafing under his responsibility for her safety. She therefore stepped into a hansom with him. When they were rattling along Piccadilly she asked him if it was he who had called out that Van Zwieten was a spy.
"Yes, it was I," admitted Wilfred, in a fiery tone. "And I should have liked to see the crowd go for the big brute."
"I don't like Van Zwieten myself, as you know," Brenda said; "all the same, Wilfred, it is only fair to say he behaved very well over that old man."
"He knew there was no danger, that the police were about. He wanted to show up as a hero in your eyes, Brenda. For my part, I wish he had been lynched for a spy. I hate the man."
"People don't lynch now in England, Wilfred."
"They would have done it to-day on small encouragement. It was lucky for Van Zwieten that he is a popular cricketer, and that they recognized him as such. Otherwise he would not have got off so easily. But I'll catch him yet!"
"How you do hate him, Wilfred!"
"Hate him! Of course I do. Here he is accepting the hospitality of England, and spying out all our weak points to use them against us should there be a war. I suspected him long ago from some words he let fall, and I have kept a watch on him ever since. He has haunted Woolwich, Portsmouth and Erith, and has made friends with privates and officers alike, and he has half a hundred creatures at his beck and call, who are poking and prying about. I dare say out at Pretoria they know more about England and her resources than those here whose duty and business it is. They will await the right moment, then they'll strike; and unless I'm much mistaken they'll strike pretty hard."
"But we are not unprepared, Wilfred."
The young man shook his head gloomily. "I myself have talked with many of our officers," he said, "and we are not so well armed as we should be. Since the Crimea, we have had no big war; and the number of easy victories we have had have made us over-confident. Of the valor of Englishmen I have no fear. They can fight as their fathers fought with true bulldog courage. But nowadays science as well as grit is needed for victory, and our War Office is so sleepy and tied up with red tape that it doesn't keep our armaments up to the mark as it should do. The Boers are armed with the Mauser rifle. Our troops--but there is no need to talk technically to you, Brenda. I can only say that if we have a war, it won't be the military promenade to Pretoria that many people expect it to be."
"But the Transvaal is quite a small state, Wilfred."
"I know. Still it is more than probable that the Orange Free State will join them. Also all over Cape Colony and Natal there are hordes of disloyal Dutch ready to rise at the first chance. Besides, Leyds is stirring up the Continent against us, and here Van Zwieten is gathering information and sending it in cypher to Pretoria. Oh, there's trouble ahead, Brenda. The Uitlander business is only a pretext for war. If we don't proclaim war, Kruger and Steyn will."
"Let them. We will crush them and punish them."
"I should think so," cried Wilfred, his dark eyes blazing with fervor. "I have never any fear for England. Though the world were against her, she would conquer--all the world was against her at the end of the last century. But we shall have our Waterloo over again. God bless England!"
"If there were war, Wilfred, would you go out?"
"As a newspaper correspondent," he replied. "I have made all my arrangements with The Morning Planet. Oh, yes, I'll go to the front, and if I die it will be for our country. Harold of course will go."
"I am proud that he should--yes, even though he should never return--and he is all in all to me!"
"He could have no nobler death," said Wilfred, coldly.
"Oh, but it would be terrible, Wilfred--terrible. Remember I am only a woman and it takes a great deal of courage----"
"You are an Englishwoman, and Englishwomen are always bravest when there is danger at hand. Don't cry, Brenda. I should not talk like this. My feelings carry me away. Let me be quiet for a time, or Mrs. St. Leger will be alarmed if I arrive in such a state of excitement."
Not another word would he speak on the way to Kensington, but he curled himself up in the corner of the cab, his eyes feverishly bright, and his face pale with emotion. The patriotic fire which consumed him was wearing out his frail body. Brenda could not understand this "man with one idea." Her love for her country was great, but it was not to her the one devouring passion. To Wilfred England was as a well-beloved woman--a creature of flesh and blood. Every blow levelled at her made him quiver and turn pale. For her sake he would willingly have died. He hated the Continental nations, but most of all he hated Van Zwieten, who was working darkly for her ill. If war were proclaimed, Wilfred promised himself that he would be in the fighting. Van Zwieten, who was no coward, would be there also, and if perchance they met, why England would be revenged if he had to shed his life blood to avenge her. He changed his mind about calling on Mrs. St. Leger, and kept the cab waiting while he said good-bye to Brenda at the door.
"If you find out anything about Van Zwieten, you'll let me know?" she entreated, as they shook hands.
"Yes; but I may be a week or two preparing my plans. He is so infernally clever, that it will take a lot to trap him. But why are you so anxious to know about him, Brenda?"
"He means harm to Harold."
"Nonsense. This isn't the Dark Age. He is powerless to hurt Harold."
"I'm afraid he can, Wilfred! On the night of Mr. Malet's murder Harold was out of doors. Mr. van Zwieten has more than hinted to me that he can and will accuse him of it!"
An angry fire glittered in Wilfred's eye. "I'll soon put a stop to that," he said between his teeth. "If I can prove Van Zwieten is a spy, he will have enough to do to look after himself without troubling about other people."
"I'm sure of that. And, Wilfred--see if you can find my father; and tell him to come and see me. I am so anxious about him."
"Oh, he's all right." Wilfred really could not bring himself to be sorry for Mr. Scarse, tainted as he was with the heresy of Little England.
"I'll call at his rooms, Brenda, and leave a message if you like. But I can't see him; I might be tempted to tell him my mind. Good-bye."
He jumped into the cab so as to give Brenda no opportunity for further argument. It was natural that she should be anxious about her father. But for her, indeed, he would have rejoiced had the mob succeeded in ducking Mr. Scarse. Bad as was Van Zwieten, Mr. Scarse was, to his thinking, worse, for he was betraying his own country with his rotten politics. It was strange and inconceivable to Wilfred that a man born an Englishman should bring himself to abuse and condemn the very land he should have been proud of.
Strangely enough, he met the object of his thoughts as his cab turned into Star Street. The old man, looking ill and unhappy, was stealing homeward, his eyes fixed on the ground before him. Wilfred was pleased to see that the failure of the meeting had gone home to him. He only hoped he would keep the memory of it by him for future guidance. The cab pulled up with a jerk, and he leaned out.
"Mr. Scarse, can I speak with you?"
Scarse looked up irritably, and recognizing Wilfred, came to the edge of the pavement. He knew the young man's passion for politics, and looked but sourly upon him.
"What is it?"
"Brenda thinks you might have got into trouble, and is anxious to hear that you are safe. Please send her word."
"Thank you," said Mr. Scarse, loftily, "there is no cause for alarm. I will attend to the matter. Were you at the meeting to-day?"
"I was," retorted Wilfred, shortly, "and I was glad to see it was a failure. Drive on, cabby," and before the older man had recovered from his anger, the hansom was swinging round the corner.
"Rude young man," muttered Mr. Scarse, wearily mounting the steps to his chambers. "Never shall I consent to Brenda marrying his brother!"
In his study he poured himself out a glass of brandy. The events of the afternoon had tried him severely, and he looked older and more frail than ever. He was deeply mortified by the discovery that the popular feeling was all against the Boers, and he recognized that war was certain. Still he hoped that if England were the one to proclaim it Europe might intervene, and for his own part resolved to throw all possible obstacles in the way. Scarse was a true patriot. He could not have loved England more had he been born a German or a Frenchman!
He lay down for an hour. The sleep refreshed him, and he awoke with a clearer brain. On returning to his study he set about writing a letter to the Press, alleging that the failure of the meeting was due to a Jingoistic conspiracy. While engaged on this precious epistle, Van Zwieten was announced, and Mr. Scarse came forward with outstretched hands.
"Ah, my dear fellow! I am so glad to see you. What a terrible afternoon it has been! A conspiracy, Van Zwieten--a conspiracy! The voice of the people has been stifled, my dear friend."
"It didn't sound like it this afternoon," said the Dutchman, drily. "They all called for war. Well, if they want it, they shall have it. And won't they be sorry when they get it."
"No war--no war. I shall protest----"
"Oh, your protests won't do any good," said the other, rudely; "the tide runs too strong for you to drive it back with a mop. But I didn't come here to talk politics, Mr. Scarse."
"In that case I must ask you to go." Mr. Scarse was offended. "I have much to do."
"You will have to lay it by then for the time being. I called to tell you that I met a friend of yours to-day--yes, at the meeting."
"Who?"
"That is what I want to hear from your lips. I know who he is from his own. He wears a yellow coat and a crape scarf."
Mr. Scarse's face became grey, and he fell against the wall with staring eyes and extended hands. "I don't know him--I assure you I don't!" he said hoarsely.
"I think you do. He is the man who was in your study at Chippingholt on the night of the murder--the man whom you sent away by train. In a word, Mr. Scarse, he is your brother--your twin brother!"